The following day was a Sunday, and we decided to go to Howth (rhymes with tooth) on a literary quest. Americano had just read a book that partly takes place on this peninsula (The Ginger Man, very fitting), so naturally he wanted to see the surroundings. (I know it’s just a book, but… it’s a book! How can you say no to that?)
So we took a train (in case you’re wondering, I didn’t tell my landlord about that) and darted our way to Howth (the trains here are called Darts, for some sinister and unknown reason that obviously has no single bearing in reality whatsoever, as they are among the slowest trains that ever crawled their way across an island). It was another incredibly sunny day (for comparison: this morning we have had rain, sunshine, snow, sunshine again, and I’m pretty sure it’ll be hailing by the time I have my next cigarette, and now it's 1PM) and there were a lot of tourists as well as locals on their way to this seaside stroll.
Howth is a small village by the ocean, with incredible cliffs and beautiful if somewhat hostile scenery. We decided to take the easy road and not the steep one with all the steps… which turned out to be a little trail on the side of the mountain through mud and rocks, usually too small to allow two abreast and not always easy per se... Add to that that people were also coming from the other side, and the fact that we could not shut up for two minutes even though the going was quite steep, and you understand we didn’t walk too quickly.
We talked and talked and talked, and rested in between, because that climb was pretty sharp at times. I was quite glad that the weekend before I had bought myself some Wellies (rubber boots, the ones that in Belgium are either green or incredibly expensive, are available here in 100 different colours and patterns, and mine – aside from being black with pink dots and bowties – even have high heels, how cool is that!) When we finally reached the outer point of the trail, the sun was almost going down. So naturally we hung around to watch the sunset… at the risk of sounding like a bad cliché: it was magical. No sunrise or sunset has been the same since then, and I have to get up pretty early and have seen quite a few sunrises in the last months… We talked and talked and talked. It seemed the world wasn’t big enough to contain all our thoughts, and my emotions were running blue sky high as well.
Writing all this makes me realize it sounds like a romcom; and maybe that is just what it is, a remnant of too many movies and too many books, a desperate wish for finding romance in the humdrum reality of daily life, searching for signs in a chaotic and unresponsive universe. It doesn’t matter, the intensity of feeling like that is worth all the romcom references in the world.
When the sun had set and we were freezing cold (Americano being the ultimate gentleman lent me his sweater, which I still have) we went to the local pub (think it was the only one in the entire place) where he ate mussels for the first time. Being from Belgium I’m practically raised on mussels, and it was so sweet to see him discover how to use a mussel to eat the others with (the Irish have great mussels, a little harder and more flavoured than Belgian mussels, but unfortunately the Irish mussels seem to be less plentiful… they don’t automatically give you a kilo or more, but just one plate… whoever invented that crazy idea should be shot).
After some star-gazing we caught the last train home, and despite having to get up the next day at 5.15 AM, the last thing I wanted to do was sleep.
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